


A Willing Slave

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Collars, Fanart, Force-Feeding, Gratuitous Use of Ye Olde English, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Difference, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon owes the mysterious stranger his life. He just doesn't realize how literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bargaining for His Life

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this fic has a bit of an interesting history. It started life as a vaguely Thramsay-inspired original fic, but since it doesn't really follow the proper...uh, "romance" formula, I decided to spare the general public. But I thought you guys might at least get some entertainment out of it. I must admit, I feel a little embarrassed writing two non-canon AUs in a row, but what is fanfiction for if not to be ridiculously self-indulgent?
> 
> Oh, and enjoy some...er, fanart, I guess.

The snow was knee-deep. Theon waded through it, one foot in front of the other. Every step flooded his boots with snow and stole a little more of the feeling from his toes.

No time to think about that. The dogs howled, and he knew he couldn’t keep ahead of his pursuers for much longer. The question was, would they arrest him and bring him back for a proper trial, or would they let the dogs tear him apart for evading arrest?

Theon kept going with renewed urgency, even as his movements faltered. The trees—black and dead in the cold of winter—reached out with thorny branches to grab at him, tearing at his clothing. Roots jutted from the ground to trip his feet. Wind whipped through his hair and stung his eyes. He didn’t know where he was going, never knew where he was going. Just away. Away.

He finally fell. A root came up to entangle his foot. He couldn’t feel, his feet were so numb. He wasn’t even aware of what had happened until he was on hands and knees in the knee-deep snow. No amount of panic could get him to move again. His body refused. The only warmth was the hot tears in his eyes, which quickly froze on his cheeks.

The dogs were closer and now he could hear men’s voices.

“Please,” he pleaded with himself, “just a little more…”

The wind died, abruptly enough to be noticed even through the cutting cold. The entire woods seemed to still.

“You’re trespassing here, you know.” A figure, as dark and as still as the surrounding trees, took shape in the stillness. Tall, with broad shoulders, dressed all in black. A man.

Theon did not know who he was, only that he was not with the pursuers. “Please,” he said, struggling to his knees. “Help me.”

The man had a face made of solid stone. He eyed Theon with a stare at least as cold and cutting as the winter.

“Please,” Theon repeated. His voice broke and became a pitiful whine.

The man seemed to be contemplating. “The men following you,” he said slowly, deliberately, “are going to kill you.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” Theon answered anyway.

“And you want to live.”

“Yes,” he said again.

The man came forward, wading through the snow until he stood in front of Theon. He was even taller now that he was so near. His face was broad and pale, but while not excruciatingly ugly, Theon never would have called him handsome. His clothing was a dead giveaway that he was no commoner, though. The cloak was so finely tailored over his broad frame, but the fabric was so thin—surely it wasn’t keeping him warm. And yet he didn’t seem bothered about the cold. His eyes were as pale as the snow.

“What would you do,” he said, “to live?”

“Anything.” No hesitation.

“Anything?” The man quirked one eyebrow. This was an invitation for Theon to change his mind. Clearly the man had something on his mind. An offer. A bargain.

“Anything,” Theon repeated.

“You are on _my_ land,” the man said. “I own these woods and surrounding area. You are trespassing here. And them, too.” He inclined his head to indicate the mingled sounds of dogs and men drawing nearer. “I could protect you from trespassers if you were to become my servant.”

Theon nodded. “I will. I’ll become your servant. I’ll serve you well, my lord.”

The man held out a large hand, staying his decision. “You will owe your life to me as my blood slave. From now until your last breath. A life for a life.” The hand disappeared back into his cloak. “It’s as simple as that.”

There wasn’t anything to think about. If his pursuers caught him, he’d be torn apart by dogs. Even if they didn’t kill him on the spot, the villagers would find him guilty and sentence him to hanging. A lifetime of servitude wasn’t ideal, but it was preferable to the alternative.

“I agree.” He got onto shaky legs. The man had to reach out to steady him. He was very strong. Theon wondered what use such a strong man could possibly have for a weakling like him. “I’ll be your…blood slave.”

Three men carrying torches burst through the line of trees, no less than six big hounds beside them. At the sight of the dark stranger, the dogs grew silent and shrank back. Even the pursuers didn’t seem to know how to react.

Theon’s heart beat with a newfound panic as the leader of the pursuers stepped forward. “Well met, my lord,” he said. “That man there is a thief and murderer. If you hand him over, we will take him to face swift justice. He’ll not bother you again.”

The tall man drew Theon closer to him, away from the light of the torches. “This man is one of my subjects and under my protection. Whatever his crimes, _I_ shall decide his punishment.”

All three pursuers stared.

“B-but, my lord, he—”

“Enough.” It was not loud, but it was sharp enough to cut off the man’s protests. “My word is final. You’re trespassing on my land. Begone before I decide what punishment will be proper for _you_.”

The men turned and fled through the trees. The lead man paused to give Theon one last hate-filled glare, but even revenge was not enough incentive to cross a nobleman. He disappeared with the dogs back into the dead woods, his torch flicking among the branches until he was out of sight.

Once they were gone, Theon’s knees gave out and he slumped forward. His savior held him up, but it still felt like the weight of everything, the last forty-eight hours, was catching up to him. He wasn’t going to die. He had another day to live, perhaps many more if he could serve well enough.

“Thank you,” he sighed.

“I have filled my end of our bargain,” the ma said. “Now you must do yours.”

Theon nodded, resigned. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

The man drew him in closer and encircled Theon with his arms, one hand on the broad plane of his back to keep him from escaping. In that instant, Theon went from feeling protected to trapped. He squirmed in the man’s grip, though he was weak and had nowhere to run even if he broke free.

The man snarled. Actually snarled. Like an animal. “ _You agreed_ ,” he hissed. One hand entangled itself in Theon’s unkempt hair and wrenched his head back, baring his throat. “A life for a life.”

Theon found his body wasn’t as cold-numbed as he’d thought. A piercing pain erupted in his neck as the tall man leaned in and dug teeth into exposed skin. Theon continued to struggle for a second or two until he felt the man’s lips moving against him, drawing the blood from his body. He thought he’d known cold before, but this was different. It was the core warmth of his body being drained away, tangibly. The veins in his extremities pulsated, trying to cling to their life essence. Over the sound of his beating heart, Theon heard the man drinking, taking great, long pulls from his neck.

Gradually, Theon’s heart began to flutter madly, then more slowly. Every pull of the man’s lips against his jugular made him weaker, more a shadow than a person. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He couldn’t fight off the overwhelming exhaustion. He slumped into the man’s grasp, and as consciousness deserted him, his mind supplied, _Not yet. I don’t want to die yet._


	2. Meeting His New Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone catches any name slips or other obvious errors, go ahead and point it out. See something--Say something.
> 
> Thanks to all the commenters--both the regulars and the new faces. You'll never know how much I love your feedback.

Consciousness came in waves.

First it was feeling. White-hot bolts of pain lacing through his fingers and toes. Chills wracking his limbs. A miserable sweat covering his body.

Then came the sounds. Voices, soft and gentle, conversational, too low to distinguish the who or what of them. Crackling, like the snapping of twigs. A fire?

Lastly came vision, and only after the monumental effort of forcing his eyes open. He was in an opulent room, he could tell even in the dim light. The walls were stone, tightly mortared—a castle, then? A fireplace to the right gave off warmth and illuminated the carpets and tapestries. The bed underneath him was softer than anything he’d ever slept on before. A blanket of a rich, warm red was pulled up to his chin.

His mind had difficulty reconciling the comfort of the mattress, the pillows, the sheets—all of it—with the terrible aching of his bones. Everything felt heavy: his eyes, his head, especially his lungs, as drawing breath was laborious.

 _I’m not dead_ , he thought. _The nobleman kept his promise. He brought me back to his castle. Did I dream the blood-drinking?_

He craned his neck for a better look around the room, but a sharp pain put a stop to that. He snaked one arm out from under the blankets and pressed his fingers to his throat. They came away smeared in red.

“You shouldn’t pick at it.”

Theon started as the door opened and a woman dressed as a maidservant backed in carrying a tray laden with food. His stomach growled at the smell. He hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours. Wait. How long had he been out? It felt like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the woman continued. She turned to face him, revealing a young brown-hair wait, more girl than woman, with a wan face and a sympathetic smile. “The young master took more blood than he should have for his first time.”

“First time?” Theon repeated. “He’s going to do it again?”

“You’re his blood slave now,” she went on, as if this were all common knowledge. “He’ll take your blood when he has need.” She set the tray on the bed next to him and gave him a more reassuring smile. “Not until you’ve recovered, though.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

She helped him sit up and fluffed the pillows to prop him up. “The young master has requested you eat something.” She set the tray on his lap and lifted the lid. A large steak, warm and red against the silver plate, set Theon’s stomach rumbling again.

She handed him a knife and fork, like a gentleman would use, and he began cutting in with exactly no shred of elegance. She covered her mouth with a delicate hand and chuckled as he ate. Theon didn’t care. The steak was tender and rare and he could swear he’d never had anything so good in his life.

“I can have the kitchen send up more,” the young woman said. “The young master has given orders that you are to be made comfortable.”

“Does ‘the young master’ have a name?” Theon asked between bites.

“Ramsay Bolton,” she said promptly, folding her hands on her white apron. “Heir of Castle Bolton.” She gave him a prim bow.

“And your name?”

She blinked in surprise at that. “Jeyne,” she responded with a smile. No last name. She was a commoner then, like him.

“I’m Theon,” he said, feeling a bit emboldened by her friendliness. “I don’t exactly…” He paused. There were so many questions. He’d just have to start with the most pressing. “Your young master…does he drink human blood often?”

“It is what sustains him,” she said simply.

“He’s not a human?”

She shook her head.

Theon’s head reeled. He remembered stories of creatures who drank human blood, who lived as the undead by night and slept as the dead by day. “Vampyre,” he breathed. He ran a hand over the bite marks on his neck. “Am I a Vampyre now?”

She tittered. “No. Only a Head Vampyre can make new Vampyres, and only then by feeding his blood to a human. Lord Ramsay has made you his blood slave to _feed_ on your blood. It would not benefit him to have you turned.”

Theon’s hands were shaking as he set aside his fork and knife. The steak was heavy in his stomach. He desperately wanted to keep it down.

“I am to be used as his human food.” He swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. “I did not agree to that.” A small voice in the back of his head wondered if it would have made any difference.

“A blood slave can only be taken willingly,” Jeyne said. “There is power in a willing human’s blood. Vampyres covet power.” She paused and glanced around the room, as if checking to make sure they were alone. Perhaps she was not supposed to be so forthcoming about her “young master.” “The fact that Lord Ramsay has finally taken another blood slave means he has ambitions. I don’t know what he wants…” The way she bit at her lip suggested she did. “But you will help him get it. That makes you very important. He will not let any harm come to you.”

Theon guessed that had more or less been their agreement, but it didn’t change the fact that this Ramsay person had omitted some rather large details. _He took advantage of me_ , he realized. _He knew I was desperate and would agree to anything. This wasn’t a deal, wasn’t a bargain. It was a trap._

Something of his resentment must have shown on his face, because Jeyne laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as she cleared his plate. “You are lucky,” she said. “Lord Ramsay has a claim on you. He will not allow anyone to hurt you.”

Theon stared into her eyes. An ordinary shade of brown, but beautiful nonetheless. There was a depth there, and sorrow and fear. It took a few moments for her words to sink in.

“Who does he allow to hurt you?”

She shook her head. “I am no concern of his. He wouldn’t miss me if one of the other Vampyres took an interest in my blood or…” She chewed her lip as she stood, once again withholding information.

“The other Vampyres?”

“Oh, yes. There are others here. But like I said, you needn’t fear them.” She tilted her head cordially and turned to go, tray in hand.

“Jeyne.”

Her back stiffened and she paused.

“Is there any way to escape?”

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide in astonishment. “Only a fool would try to run. They’d catch you and kill you. Slowly. I’ve heard it. The screaming can go on for days.” And just like that, her smile was back in place. A mask. He should have realized sooner. “Good for you, that’s not an issue. You’ve already given your life to Lord Ramsay.” She straightened up and once more strode purposefully towards the door. “I’ll let him know you’re awake.”

The door closed behind her and left an eerie silence in her wake. The fire crackled and a tree branch knocked against the window from outside. It was not at all comforting.

Theon threw back the blankets and staggered out of bed. No sooner had he put weight on his feet than his knees went out. He collapsed to the floor, shaking from weakness. Every muscle hurt. The contracting of his lungs hurt. The beating of his heart hurt.

His neck was throbbing again. His hand came away stained in more blood, as well as his shirt sleeve. Which was when he realized this wasn’t the shirt he’d been wearing in the forest. He’d never owned a white shirt in his life, and yet here was a white shirt with splotches of dark blood hanging loosely off his frame. Vest, boots, pants: there was no sign of them. He was bare underneath.

His legs had never looked for pale and so skinny as they did poking out from under the hem of that large shirt. Was this Ramsay’s shirt? His bed? Who had undressed him?

_I need to get out of here._

But how? And where to?

He ended up half-staggering, half-crawling to the one window. It was too narrow for him to escape through, but if he could just get his bearings, he might find the right opportunity to get himself out of this mess. He pressed himself up against the window. The glass was cold and his breath fogged the view. He used his clean sleeve to wipe it away and peered out.

A sea of trees stretched as far as he could see, gnarly black branches reaching up against a sickle moon. Had he been out long enough for night to come again? Over the line of trees, he could just make out the shapes of mountains. Could he escape up into them? Doubtful. This room appeared to be several stories off the ground, and even if he were able to jimmy the window open, squeeze through, and scale the side of the building, he’d be left to the elements in only a nightshirt. He wouldn’t survive ‘til dawn, let alone on his own up in the mountains.

He slid down the wall with a defeated sigh and fell into a heap on the floor.

The door opened on soundless hinges. Theon didn’t lift his head, but he could guess who it was. He didn’t hear any footsteps approaching, so he was startled when a shadow fell over him, dancing in the light of the fireplace. “You should be in bed,” the deep voice said evenly. “Resting.”

Theon felt himself lifted up and into the man’s arms as if he weighed no more than a child. He fought against it, pushing at the broad chest he found himself held again. He was too weak, or this man was too strong. Probably both. He was carried across the room and deposited on the bed once more. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he struggled against that, lest he be swallowed.

“Stop that,” the man, Lord Ramsay, said. Strong hands pinned Theon’s arms to his side, and he was forced down into the pillows. “You’ve opened your wounds.”

Lord Ramsay leaned over, his tall frame completely enveloping Theon. Before Theon could ask what he was doing, he felt something warm and wet and slimy sliding along the puncture wounds in his neck. He yelped and jerked away, but Ramsay held him firm. The tongue lapped at his throat, leaving a trail of sticky wetness wherever it touched. Theon shuddered in revulsion.

“Stop,” he managed at last.

Ramsay pulled away. “I’m cleaning your wound.”

“Please stop.”

With an indignant sniff, Ramsay stood. He was as tall as Theon remembered. Even without his cloak, his shoulders were still very broad. His fine tunic hardly seemed to be able to contain his barrel chest. Black hair was pulled back and fastened at the nape of his neck, and his pale eyes flickered in the dim light.

“You are ill,” he said after a moment or two of apprising. Theon couldn’t deny he’d been apprising the dark man as well. “I took too much blood, so I will not be punishing you for your impudence tonight. Consider it my apology.”

“Impudence?”

“You spoke back to me.”

If Ramsay weren’t a nobleman, Theon might have protested, possibly thrown an insult or two. It was only a lifetime of ingrained rules about his social superiors that kept him from saying something potentially deadly to this Vampyre. Instead he bit his lip.

“Jeyne tells me you were quick to surmise what I am,” Ramsay said.

“No quick enough, or I never would have agreed to your deal.”

“Oh?” Ramsay lifted both eyebrows in mock surprise. “Are you unhappy with our bargain? I could certainly return you to the men who were following you. Perhaps I should kill you myself, spare them the effort.”

“No.” Theon hated how quickly his righteous indignation gave way to fear and pleading. “Please don’t. I’ll…I’ll do what you want. I just thought, when I agreed, that I’d be a…a manservant. A stable boy or something.”

“Servants are indeed difficult to come by, and harder still to keep. But the task I have for you is much more important.”

Theon shuddered and drew the covers around him. He didn’t like the way Ramsay looked at him as he said that, probably the look that had been on his own face when Jeyne had brought in the steak.

“You’re going to be my blood slave.”


	3. Learning His Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny anecdote time. So, I introduced my roommate to this fandom through the television series, where it's harder to keep track of the characters' names, I guess. So she has these shorthand names for everyone ("the hot guy" is Daario, "the short guy" is Tyrion, and Jon Snow is just..."Snow" for whatever reason.) Her shorthand for Theon...Ironman. I'm like...well, now I've got an interesting crossover image stuck in my head, thanks.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

Theon spent the next two days in bed, sleeping. His body was exhausted, but his mind was troubled. He was wracked with nightmares: a burning cottage, a melting face, hands reaching out to him. He awoke drenched in a cold sweat.

Jeyne came at regular intervals, offering trays of venison, lamb, tender loin, veal. Theon had never seen—let alone eaten—so much meat. Ramsay must be a man of considerable wealth to be able to slaughter so many animals in the dead of winter. Thoughts of slaughter churned Theon’s stomach, and when Jeyne came to give him dinner on the third night of his captivity, he found he wasn’t hungry. She has brought him liver this time, marinating in its own blood. Theon couldn’t stand the sight of it.

“You must eat,” Jeyne said after a few moments. She always attended him during meals, almost like she’d been ordered to make sure he ate. “The young master wishes for you to build up your strength.”

That was when the pieces fell into place. “You’re trying to build my blood up.” He shoved the plate away, and it would have spilled onto the bed if Jeyne hadn’t hurriedly grabbed it. “ _He’s_ trying to build my blood up. So he can take more. Is that it?”

“You need to eat,” Jeyne said, clearly distressed.

“I’m not going to be that monster’s blood slave. You can go and tell him that.” He turned over and pulled the blankets over his head, ending any argument from her. After a second or so of silence, he heard her gather up the tray then trot from the room on clipped heels.

He probably shouldn’t have snapped at her. She was a human, and it couldn’t be of her own volition that she was doing any of this. He’d seen the fear in her face as she spoke of “the young master,” had seen the way she chewed at her lip when asked certain questions. Theon hoped she wouldn’t get into trouble on his account.

He had just started drifting off to sleep when he felt, rather than saw or heard, Ramsay’s presence at his bedside. “Jeyne tells me you are refusing to eat.”

“Yes,” Theon answered.

“So you do want to die after all? Starvation is a long, painful process.”

“I’ll eat when you bring me something I can stomach.”

Hands found his shoulders and he was wrenched into a sitting position, his face inches from Ramsay. Those eyes burned with a cold fire that sent gooseflesh up and down Theon’s arms. “You will eat what I bring you,” he said through clenched teeth. For the first time, he seemed genuinely angry. His grip on Theon’s shoulder was becoming tighter and more painful by the minute.

Theon withered under the cold pressure of this man and then went slack in his grasp.

Ramsay released him and reached for the tray perched at the end of the bed. He set it on Theon’s lap and lifted the lid to reveal the liver beneath. “Eat.”

The bitter, coppery smell of it felt like a punch to his guts. If he were honest with himself, he’d say it actually looked appetizing, but looking at it, knowing why Ramsay wanted him to eat it, sent the pit of his stomach careening down into his feet.

“I can’t.”

Ramsay snarled and was on him again in an instant. “I let you talk back before, but now it’s time for you to learn your place.” He swept the plate aside and straddled Theon’s chest, pushing him back into the pillows. He was a big man, and the thickness of his thighs felt like a vice to Theon, pinning him in.

Two days of rest had not done nearly enough to rebuild his strength, and once again his struggles were in vain. One of Ramsay’s hands was on his throat, tilting his head back, fingers digging into the sensitive skin behind his ears. The man was large enough to strangle Theon with one hand, but although his grasp was tight and painful, it stopped short of suffocating.

Theon could feel the pounding of blood in his throat, could hear the roar of it in his ears. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the man above him, even as Ramsay reached for the plate and grabbed the liver with his bare hand, the free one. Blood dribbled across the sheets and was immediately lost among all the red. Theon gulped. Somehow, Ramsay was going to make him eat.

Ramsay brought the liver to his own mouth and tore a chunk with his teeth. A flash of sharp incisors and the hunk of meat was rent in half. Ramsay took several deliberate chews of the morsel, then, hand still as Theon’s throat, leaned forward. Theon endeavored to keep his lips sealed, but the sudden blossoming of pain where sharp fingernails dug into soft flesh had him gasping. Ramsay took the opportunity he’d created to sealed their lips together. Then, he used his tongue to push the hunk of meat into Theon’s mouth.

Theon balked and sputtered at the intrusion. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, but he couldn’t tell what was meat and what was the other’s man’s tongue. He only knew that it was warm and wet and they were mingling. He wanted to vomit at the thought of it all, but Ramsay was drawing back and clamping a hand over his mouth.

“Chew,” he ordered and, with hands around Theon’s throat, began to work his jaw.

There was nothing for it. The longer it sat on his tongue, the worse the urge to vomit got. Theon forced the meat into the back of his throat and, with some difficulty, swallowed it.

Ramsay grinned and released his hold. “Can you eat the rest on your own, or must I feed you every bite?”

The bit of liver sat warm and wet in his stomach, and Theon struggled to keep it down. “Please, I’ll eat.” He felt tears of helplessness in his eyes. “Just please don’t.”

“You’re frightened of me. Good.” Ramsay stood and gathered the contents of the tray together to set once more on Theon’s lap. “I take it you will be quicker to do as you’re told in the future.”

“Yes, sir.” With shaky hands, Theon reached for his knife and fork. “Yes…Lord Ramsay.”

“Good.” The man took a seat on the edge of the bed and watched like a hawk as Theon cut a piece of meat and ate it. “Now hurry and finish your meal. You’re getting out of bed today.”

Theon shot a glance towards the window, which told him that “today” was technically “tonight.” He took another bite to keep from asking any questions, though. He had lost all desire to test Ramsay’s patience. An uneasy silence settled as he ate and Ramsay watched.

The rest of the liver went down easier, though it felt like lead in his stomach. It was a welcome distraction to swing his legs over the side of the bed and concentrate his strength in getting to his feet. Aside from the first day, he’d only been up a handful of times to use the chamber pot in the corner. Those trips had ended, without exception, with him on the floor. This time, he grabbed hold of the bedpost and waited out the wave of darkness as what little blood remained rushed from his head. And then Ramsay was at his side, steadying him.

Theon hated how weak and small he felt. He’d never been a big man, but he’d always been strong enough to take care of himself, at least. Here he was, a child again, fed and helped with his first trembling steps. He didn’t dare protest as Ramsay put hands around his shoulders and led him out the room. The big man was so solid and unmoving, Theon so wobbly. Besides lacking the strength to struggle, he didn’t want to further upset his captor.

The stone floors and walls extended out into the hallway, which was narrow but high-ceilinged. It was also exceedingly cold, now that they were away from the fireplace. The intermittent sconces did little for heat or light, just barely illuminating the paintings hanging on the walls. Stern-faced men and women glared down at him from centuries past. Were they Ramsay’s ancestors? Did Vampyres have ancestors?

They came to a room at the far end of the hall, and when Ramsay opened the door, the warmth from within washed over Theon. It was a washroom, with steaming water in a large basin. Jeyne sat tending to a small fire, where more water was warming. She glanced up at their arrival and smiled.

“Your bath is ready,” she said.

Theon had never had a bath in wintertime. Usually he bathed in rivers and lakes, occasionally in bathhouses. He stood dumbstruck for a moment, unsure of what to do.

Ramsay compelled him forward. “You need to bathe. You’re covered in sweat and filth, and my blood slave must be presentable.” He led Theon to the edge of the tub to stare into the slightly cloudy water. “Strip.”

If there was any blood left in Theon’s face, it drained away at that command. He looked from Ramsay to Jeyne. “In front a woman?” What he really wanted to say was, “In front of you?” but he held his tongue.

“No need to be modest around Jeyne,” Ramsay replied. “You’ve got nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

Theon’s cheeks flared with heat. He’d always been self-conscious around women. The girl he’d lost his virginity to—a milkmaid named Ros—had laughed when he’d first undressed, saying he had a more shapely figure than she did. He’d always been thin—lean, he liked to think—with a narrow waist and a smooth chest. His attempts to boost his masculinity by growing a beard only left a fine layer of stubble on his chin and cheeks.

But as nervous as he was to be seen naked by Jeyne, he was downright terrified to be left so bare in front of his captor. He remembered the feel of Ramsay’s tongue on his neck and in his mouth, the way it made his skin crawl. What would this man do when he was completely naked?

“Strip,” Ramsay repeated, and Theon could feel the tension in the room rising. “I will not ask again. Unless you need my help with that as well?”

“No, no.” Theon jumped to do as he was told. “I’ll do it.” He yanked the shirt over his head, drowning in the excess of fabric. It didn’t come off as smoothly as he’d hoped, and he floundered until his arms were free. He stood holding the shirt over his lap, his last barrier protecting his modesty from cold eyes.

“In the tub,” Ramsay said, letting him have that scrap of dignity. “Jeyne will wash you.”

Theon backed towards the tub so as not to have his back to this man. He felt with his hand for the lip of the basin and stepped in, one foot at a time, only releasing the shirt when he was waist-deep in the water. He sank into the warmth up to his chest. It was difficult to remain alert with the steam taking the edge off his nerves, seeping into his aching bones. It took his all not to sigh in contentment.

Jeyne brought the kettle from the fire and began pouring comforting water over his head and shoulders. Dirt and sweat lifted off of him, darkening the water and offering more protection for his naked form. He didn’t even mind when Jeyne began scrubbing at him with a rough cloth.

“Theon.”

He jerked at his name on Ramsay’s lips.

“Your name is Theon, isn’t it?”

Theon nodded, though he couldn’t remember giving this man his name at any point.

“Do you prefer men or women?”

He looked up to see Ramsay standing at his other side. Jeyne pointedly did not lift her eyes and went about her work, dipping the rag under the waterline.

“I don’t understand,” Theon offered.

“Who would you prefer to wash you?” Ramsay’s long fingers ghosted over Theon’s shoulder and along his collarbone. The water was no longer warm enough to keep the gooseflesh at bay. “Me or Jeyne?”

Jeyne, his mind supplied, though he didn’t see what that had to do with being a man or a woman. Jeyne was human while Ramsay was a cruel monster. Instead he answered, “A lord such as yourself shouldn’t dirty his hands with the likes of me.”

Ramsay’s lips quirked upwards, and his roving hand moved to Theon’s face, caressing his jaw. “I see,” he said smoothly. “Tell me, how many women have you been with?”

His blood had mysteriously reappeared, though thankfully in his face and not elsewhere. “Sir?” He looked to Ramsay imploringly.

“You’re not a virgin?”

“No. I…three maybe,” he hazarded. Perhaps more, but he wasn’t sure what Ramsay considered “being with a woman.”

Ramsay gave a pleased nod. “And…have you ever been with a man?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “Twice. With the same man.” Theon couldn’t even remember the man’s name, just that he’d been attractive and complimentary of Theon’s looks. He hadn’t laughed the way Ros had, and their encounter had been pleasant enough that Theon had sought him out a second time before moving onto the next town. “Is that…is that illegal here?”

“No, of course not,” Ramsay said, drawing his hand back, but not before carding it through Theon’s hair. “I was just curious.”

“Why?” It came out before he could stop himself. He clamped a hand over his mouth, as if he could draw it back in.

Ramsay threw back his head and laughed. It was so unexpected, it startled Jeyne into dropping her rag. She began groping around for it, and Theon drew his knees to his chin to keep her hands from grabbing something they shouldn’t.

“You are afraid of me,” Ramsay chuckled. “That is good. But you needn’t fear me for such a thing. I will only use your body for my blood and not in…the other sense. Though I assure you it is only for practical reasons.” He threaded his fingers through Theon’s damp hair, using both hands to rub along his scalp. “I find you quite attractive.”

Theon wanted to pull away from that touch, but there was nowhere to go, no one to protect him. He could only hug his knees and make himself as small as possible. Never in his life had he actually wanted to become smaller.

“But you won’t?” he squeaked out and wondered if it was too much to ask for a promise. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the possibility had been in his mind since he’d woken up to find himself in a stranger’s clothes.

“No,” Ramsay reassured him, like he was a child or a dog. “Such a thing would kill you, and I very much need you alive.”

 


	4. Meeting His Master’s Master

He was a ghost.

That was the first startling thought as he was brought to stand before the mirror. His skin had become almost as pale as Ramsay’s, with only the hint of blue veins in his arms and neck to suggest any blood flowed at all. His hair was still damp and hung down to the nape of his neck in a dark mass. Jeyne had spent quite some time combing the tangles out, and now it looked limp and dead against his pale skin. His eyes were hollow, with gray circles beneath them. Theon didn’t know whether it was bad or good that he looked at least as horrible as he felt.

Ramsay had supplied a new shirt, another white one that nearly disappeared against the color of Theon’s skin. Although no further items of clothing were forthcoming, Theon had been given an…additional item to wear. He stood in front of the mirror now, hating the feel of the leather on his neck, the way it constricted around his throat. The collar was tall; he could hardly turn his head from side to side. The locking mechanism was heavy and maddeningly distracting as it dangled.

“All the time?” he asked.

Ramsay leaned in over his shoulder. His breath was unnaturally cool against Theon’s ear as he spoke. “All the time.”

Theon would have shaken his head if he could—in denial, to give himself some breathing room, just to move. The collar wouldn’t allow it, and the longer he stood staring at his pathetic reflection, the more he wanted to claw at his own face. He couldn’t wear the thing; he would go mad.

“It will protect you from the others,” Ramsay whispered. His fingers were like spiders on Theon’s shoulders. “They will see this and know you are mind. Only my hands can have what is under here.” He nuzzled into Theon’s shoulder, drawing his nose along every inch, pausing to inhale. “You look beautiful. It’s a shame I cannot take you in every way. You deserve to be claimed thoroughly.”

Theon forced himself to remain still and numb, even though his fingers itched and the skin under the collar felt like it was burning. It helped, just a little bit, to remember this was the alternative to the noose. Though the collar felt tight enough around his throat at the moment.

“My sire will be awake soon,” Ramsay went on. “I want you to meet him when he does.”

Theon didn’t put up any manner of resistance when Ramsay took hold of his hand and led him from the wardrobe. The hallways were even colder with the remnants of his bath clinging to his hair, and he was sure his form could be made out through the sheer fabric of the shirt. Of course, this place was much emptier than Theon had ever imagined a castle being. They met the occasional servant, obviously human by the rosy tint in their cheeks. They didn’t care to see any more than Theon cared to be seen, as they averted their gazes when Ramsay came by. Clearly they knew what Ramsay was, so why were they serving this monster? It couldn’t be free will.

As the two descended a spiral staircase, they came upon a trio of finely dressed nobles who were not human, judging from their pallor. The “others” Ramsay had mentioned earlier. They had cornered a serving boy, it appeared, and were taking great joy in the way he cowered from them. The leader among them was a man with hair so pale that it, combined with his complexion, made him appear entirely colorless. All of his clothing was a red a shade too bright to be blood, from his breeches to the ribbon holding back his hair to his very shoes. He white shirt and cravat, however, were splatted with droplets the exact color of blood, specifically the blood dripping down the serving boy’s arm.

“Damon,” Ramsay said with the tone of a mother who’d caught her child pilfering from the pantry. “Not damaging the servants, are we?”

Damon seemed to be the blond one, because he chuckled as Ramsay’s mild chastisement. “Nothing that can’t be replaced.”

“And _you’ll_ do the replacing?” Ramsay tapped his foot against the stone floor. “It’s quite the trip into town to recruit new humans. Even in winter you’d never make it back before sunrise. Although maybe a night or two away from the castle would give you time to think, for once.”

Damon glowered. There was definitely something sour between these two.

“That your new blood slave?” The only woman among them broke the tension. She was dressed in an obscenely form-fitting gown, a dark purple, but that was the only ladylike thing about her. She had wild hair and even wilder eyes, and she came forward bobbing her head like a curious bird.

“I’d heard you’d taken one,” the third Vampyre said. He was a bear of a man, not as tall as Ramsay, but just as thick, stockier. He wore a truly impressive beard, under which red lips stood out against white skin. His color preference appeared to be green going by his courtly robes.

The three of them circled around Ramsay, and the serving boy took the opportunity to run. Smart boy. Theon would have loved to run as well, but Ramsay’s hand was a vice on his shoulder, keeping him rooted there or protecting him, Theon couldn’t tell.

“He looks tasty,” Damon said with a blood-soaked grin. “A bit on the small side, though.”

“Small so he doesn’t have to share with the likes of us,” the woman chuckled.

“No,” Ramsay agreed, now tugging at Theon’s collar to draw attention to it. “He is off limits. I don’t care what you do to the servants, but if you touch my blood slave, I will end you.”

Damon lifted his lip in a silent snarl. “Maybe you’ll show me the advantages of having a blood slave, in that case. I’d like to see you try to end me without your little human.” He cast a withering glance at Theon before turning. The other two took some silent cue from him and followed behind, shoulder to shoulder.

Theon was left feeling shaken and confused. A number of threats had been volleyed back and forth, but he’d only been able to follow a few of them. Apparently they’d been enough to aggravate Ramsay, because the grip on his arm had become painful, with sharp nails digging in. And then he was being pulled along again, so sharply his arm was almost wrenched from his socket.

“You’re not to be alone with another Vampyre,” Ramsay said, his eyes trained on a destination only he knew. “If another Vampyre tries to feed from you, you are to run. Come to me immediately. Is that understood?”

He was going so fast now that it was difficult to keep up. Theon kept tripping as he was hauled along like a dog on a leash.

“Damon has always been jealous of me because I am Lord Bolton’s heir and favorite. He thinks getting rid of me will put him next in line to inherit the castle. Why Sire chose to change him I’ll never know.”

Ramsay seemed to be talking to himself at this point and didn’t expect any answers, which was good because Theon was too focused on keeping on his feet.

They continued on their way at a brisk pace until another set of winding stairs took them up into a tower more devoid of warmth than Theon had ever felt before. This wasn’t just cold; this was emptiness, a harsh void that caused his breath to steam and his damp hair to frost. His feet were completely numb by the time they reached the top step.

There was an ancient wooden door with gargoyle-faced doorknobs. Ramsay took hold of the ring in the left gargoyle’s mouth and knocked. The sound echoed up and down the stairwell.

“Come in,” a voice said.

This door was not silent as it swung inwards. It shrieked as if in agony, and a snatch of Jeyne’s warning came back to Theon: “The screams go one for days. I’ve heard it.”

The room inside was cold and bleak, and no wonder. None of the windows had glass, only curtains that whipped in the howling winds. On a table in the middle of the room sat a single candle, the only light. There were wingback chairs and bookcases, all of which looked weather-damaged from more than one year in this dank belfry. There was no bed, but there was a coffin in the corner farthest from the window.

The sole occupant of this room stood with his back to them as they entered. He turned from his view at the window without an ounce of urgency and watched them with an impassive face. Whatever Theon had been expecting of a Head Vampyre, he had not expected him to be so young. He looked to be only a few years older than Ramsay, with jet-black hair pulled tight against his scalp. A few strands had worked themselves loose from the tie at the base of his skull and danced across his face in the wind. His eyes were blue and just as cold as Ramsay’s, and the longer Theon stared into them, the more sense of incomprehensible age came over him. This was Ramsay’s sire. Even though he was likely not the man’s biological father, he could see in the line of his shoulders, his posture and bearing, how closely these two were related.

“This is him?” Lord Bolton clasped his hands behind his back and came forward on legs that were somehow graceful and jerky all at once, as if every step were calculated to give the impression of hesitancy. He came to a stop a single pace from Theon and proceeded to inspect him. “Dare I ask why, or was he simply the first human to accept?”

“The first I bothered to ask,” Ramsay replied with a shrug. “I recalled our conversation and agreed with you. It’s time for me to grow, as heir to Castle Bolton.”

“Oh, expecting me to die soon, boy?”

“No, sire.”

The older Vampyre made a soft, thoughtful “hmm,” as if he weren’t entirely convinced. “Come here, young man.”

Theon started at being directly addressed.

“Sir?”

“Come here,” he repeated, quirking a finger. He wasn’t as commanding or intimidating as Ramsay, but he was somehow more terrifying with his soft-spoken manner. “I want to get a better look at you.”

Theon didn’t dare disobey.

He took a hesitant step forward, bridging as much of the gap between them as he dared. He was close enough now that he should have been able to feel the other man’s breath on his face, but the man seemed not to need to breathe. Cold hands came out to caress his face, tease along the collar at his throat, run up and down his sides. He felt like a work dog being assessed for errors in breeding.

At his side, Ramsay grew stiff and rigid. “Well? What do you think of him?”

“He has potential.” Lord Bolton gave Theon’s cheek one more pat before tucking his hands behind his back and returning to his place at the window.

“So…you approve?”

Lord Bolton didn’t move. “Do you require my approval now?” His voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, echoing off stones worn smooth with age.

“No,” Ramsay stammered, and it was the first Theon had seen him rattled. Angry, yes. Annoyed, yes. But thrown off-balance? “It’s just…you’ve had so many blood slaves, Sire. I thought you might give me some advice.”

Lord Bolton made that same “hmm” sound. “My advice would be to take your blood slave from here before he catches his death of cold. He’s wet, still, and likely weak from your bonding bite. Weak blood slaves make for weak Vampyres.”

A low growl began to form in Ramsay’s throat, but he only said, “Thank you, Sire,” with a curt bow before grabbing Theon’s arm and dragging him from the room.

The walk back was ever more difficult than the walk there. Ramsay showed no concern for Theon’s ability to keep up, and whenever the human stumbled, Ramsay would haul him roughly to his feet without a moment’s pause to recover.

Theon couldn’t keep track of all the hallways and corridors, but he supposed he was being taken back to his own room. His suspicions proved correct when Ramsay flung open a set of doors on silent hinges to reveal the same crackling fire and canopied bed. The sheets had been changed while they were gone and were now a crisp white.

Theon would have gladly crawled into bed on his own, expect Ramsay scooped him into his arms like a bride on her wedding night and carried him across the room. Theon fought instinctively against the indignity. His mind didn’t have time to consider what Ramsay might do in the face of his protestations before he was deposited with little care onto the down mattress.

“Get some rest,” Ramsay hissed. “We wouldn’t want you catching a cold now, would we?” And with that he turned and left, slamming the doors behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might seem sort of weird to cast the Bastard Boys as Ramsay's antagonists, but Roose has always maintained that they're actually on his payroll and not Ramsay's. So that's my reasoning, even if they are BFFF's (best flaying friends forever) in canon.


	5. Regretting

Theon spent another three days in bed, sleeping except when Jeyne brought him food. More meat, rare and bloody. She stood with her hands folded in front of her and made sure he ate the entire plate.

“I’m sorry,” she said the day after the liver incident. “I was ordered to see that you eat whatever they tell me to bring you.”

“It’s fine,” Theon muttered half-heartedly. “Did you get in trouble because of me?”

She gnawed at her lip.

“Will I have to eat nothing but meat for the rest of my life?” He didn’t want to consider how long “the rest of his life” actually was now. It seemed to be getting drastically shorter every day.

“Lord Ramsay will allow you more once you’re fully recovered.”

He was still getting exclusively meat plates three days later, though he was feeling well enough to get to his feet and walk around the room on his own. When Ramsay caught him standing at the window, Theon expected him to be angry, but instead he seemed pleased. “You’re restless,” he noted with a grin. “Recovering your strength. You can come with me today. I want to show you off.”

Theon seriously had to weigh his options. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be in this man’s presence. On the other, he’d been confined to this one room for the better part of a week. He might go mad if he had to keep looking at that same tapestry of noblemen and their hounds on a hunt for an elk.

And that was how he found himself at Ramsay’s side as the lord made the rounds of his castle.

The grounds were large and sterile, containing a kitchen, a dining hall, and sleeping quarters, all for the human servants, it seemed. Vampyres took their meals straight from their victims’ veins and slept in coffins like Lord Bolton. There were other rooms of note: a receiving room with a throne-like seat presiding above the others, a rather fine stable that Theon only glimpsed through the windows, a ballroom with marble floors and mirrored walls.

Ramsay never seemed to have any real business in any of these locations. Rather, he seemed more intent on impressing Theon. Theon couldn’t deny that he was. Everything was so elegant and tailored for comfort, more-so than anywhere Theon had had the pleasure—or displeasure—of staying.

Ramsay made off-handed remarks about there being crypts under the castle, but thankfully they never ventured there. He gathered that was where the other Vampyres kept their coffins, along with Ramsay.

Ramsay ended the tour in front of the large windows overlooking the courtyard. It would have been quite the sight in summer, with its hedges and flowerbeds creating a long promenade between the two wings of the castle. In winter, there was a harsh beauty to the bare tree branches, the way the snow had settled on the stone benches, undisturbed. The fountain at the center of it all watched with a hundred gargoyle eyes.

Ramsay took Theon’s hand gently in his own. “Join me.”

Theon craned his neck to give Ramsay a disbelieving stare then looked down to his bare legs, his bare feet.

Ramsay chucked and shrugged his black overcoat off. There wasn’t any residual body heat to speak of as he settled it over Theon’s shoulders, but the fabric was warm and luxuriant. Before he could ask what to do about his feet, Ramsay had lifted him into his arms. It was an effortless lift, like before, and gave Theon the feeling of shrinking into his captor’s grasp. He wanted to struggle, would rather lose all feeling in his feet to the cold than be carried around like this.

Snow was falling gently as they stepped outside. A few flakes clung to Ramsay’s dark hair, but none melted where they met his skin. It was dark, the only light flickering out from the windows, and eerily still. No animals, no wind. Just the very soft crunching of snow as Ramsay walked.

“You did not grow up in such extravagance,” Ramsay said, breaking the stillness.

“No.”

“Neither did I. I was not a noble when my Sire found me, but a simple country boy.” He smirked to himself. “You’ll accept your new life, in time. Soon you’ll find yourself more gracious than you would have imagined.”

“Gracious for being made your slave?” He probably shouldn’t have said that, but something about the bitter chill lowered his defenses.

Ramsay tsk’d in disapproval. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re such a reticent child.”

“I’m not a child! I’m nineteen!”

“And I am three hundred and forty-two years old,” Ramsay replied. “This castle was not yet even completed when I was made a Vampyre.”

He set Theon on one of the stone benches, back pressed into the virgin snow, and leaned in over him. A hand on either side of him and a large body over him—Theon was well and truly hemmed in. He felt panic rise in his chest as Ramsay drew nearer, flashbacks of bits of meat being forced into his throat.

“You think you can take advantage of my hospitality and give nothing back? You need to learn to appreciate all that I’ve done for you, Theon.”

“I appreciate it,” Theon choked out. “I do. And I’m willing to be your servant. I’ll do anything you want, any sort of chore, just…don’t. Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Ramsay’s tone was teasing as he nuzzled against the collar. “I can take this off whenever I want, drink my fill. Of course, it’s really just for show, to let everyone know I own you. I could bite you anywhere. Your wrist, your arm. Here.” His hand fluttered on Theon’s thigh, and Theon jumped at the intimate touch. “I could drain you dry. That’s what you agreed to when you became my blood slave. You gave your life to me.”

Theon choked back a sob. Perhaps Ramsay was right. He’d made this deal without knowing the specifics. Perhaps this was simply the price he had to pay. Such an ironic fate for a former thief.

“I don’t want this,” he thought realizing too late that he’d said it out loud.

Ramsay snarled. “I don’t care what you want.” He covered the distance between them, planting his mouth of Theon’s lips.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was all brutal dominance and sharp teeth tearing into his lips. The taste of his own blood flooded his mouth when he tried to scream, to yell. It poured over his tongue and down his throat, leaving a tangy burn on its way into his lungs. He coughed, his chest spasmed, and still Ramsay was on him, tearing into the sensitive tissue of his lips with sharp fangs. The entire world became the rending of flesh in his mouth and the burning of his chest as he struggled to breathe.

After what felt like an eternity, Ramsay’s weight lifted. Theon sat up and spat globs of blood into the snow. He bent over, body wracked with coughs so hard he retched. Thankfully, nothing came up, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up to see Ramsay licking the last of the blood from his lips. Theon ran his fingers along his own tender lips, feeling the teeth marks. He stared up at Ramsay in disbelief.

“You said you were going to wait until I was better.”

“Now see what you made me do?” Ramsay stroked his thumb along Theon’s lower lip. The digit came away red, and Ramsay slid it into his mouth. Theon could see his tongue working to get every last bit. “I will discipline you, Theon. Whenever you displease me, whenever I feel like it. That is my prerogative as the master of this relationship.”

_I agreed to this_ , Theon told himself. It was better to face this helplessness with the thought that at least he’d done something to deserve it. Images of a burning cottage flashed before his eyes, angry villagers crying, “Murderer!” _I agreed to this and this is the price I need to pay._

Ramsay carried him inside, and Theon allowed himself to be carried. In truth, Ramsay had not taken much blood. Rather, it felt like he’d taken every bone from his body, and Theon was unable to move. Or do anything, really.

Ramsay put him to bed. “I’ll have Jeyne tend your wounds.”

Theon wanted to be alone. He didn’t want hands on him. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to do anything but stare at the canopy overhead until he came to grips with this situation.

Nonetheless, Jeyne appeared a few minutes later touting a basket of medical supplies. Besides serving as a maid and laundress, apparently she was some sort of healer as well. She wasn’t smiling as she studied his face, a single crease in her brow indicating concern. She sighed, sat on the edge of the bed, and dug around in her basket. And began threading a needle.

That snapped Theon out of his apathy. “Is that necessary?”

“Just a few,” she said. “I’ll be quick about it. I did this whenever my sisters at home got hurt, and they said I was quite good at it.” She bit off the end of the thick black thread from the spool and sidled closer.

“Back home,” Theon repeated as she took his head in her hands. “This isn’t home for you?”

“No.” She readied the needle.

He winced in anticipation. He’d never had stitches before. “Jeyne, could you talk while you’re…doing it? It would help distract me.”

She blinked in surprise. “What would you like me to talk about?”

“About your home? About how you ended up here as a maid for a pack of monsters?”

She sighed. “I come from Bolton’s village. It’s a quiet town, about a day’s ride by horse from here.” With one hand on his chin to steady him, she slid the needle into the corner of the deepest wound. Theon hissed through his teeth and Jeyne continued to speak as she pulled the thread through. “We had a big family. Many children. I was the oldest.”

The needle went in and out in expert order, pulling torn flesh together.

“We fell on hard times. They said…the villagers said…there were opportunities for girls who wanted to serve the lords in the castle. There were stories. We all knew what they were…even if we didn’t suspect the true nature of it. But I was desperate, and they said they’d take care of my family.”

She tied off the first set of sutures and began on the next wound without so much as a pause for breath.

“And that’s how I came to be here, tending your wounds. My earnings get sent home once a month. I’ve nothing to spend my wages on here.”

“Have you ever thought of leaving?” Theon regretted speaking when the suture she’d been working at pulled tightly against his movements. The thread cut into his lip and he yelped.

Jeyne swatted at him. “Stay still.” She began her work again before answering, “All the time. I hate it here.” She glanced up sharply at him. “But like I said, it’s not worth the risk. I’ve known those who tried. In a winter like this…” She pulled the final stitch closed and tied it off. “You’d be lucky to die in the cold before they caught you.”

Theon worked his jaw experimentally. Hid lips felt puffy and sore, but not as painful as he’d imagined considering they’d been bitten open and sewn back together. “Thank you,” he said in the first real gratitude he’d felt since he’d come to this awful place. “You really are quite good at that. I hardly felt a thing.”

“It’s the cold.” She began repacking her basket. “It slows the blood flow.” She stood and smoothed her apron. “You were near frozen to death when Lord Ramsay first brought you in. How did you find yourself all the way out here in such terrible weather?”

This was tit for tat. She’d told her story. It was only polite he tell his.

“I was running.”

She cocked her head.

“I’ve always been an opportunist,” he said. He’d been thinking about how to explain himself should Ramsay ever ask. He hadn’t, likely didn’t care. “I was a vagabond, wandering from place to place. Sometimes I did honest work. Sometimes I stole. The last village I stayed at…maybe it was your village? I wasn’t there long. I convinced this woman to let me stay in her cottage in exchange for doing odd chores. She was a widow and happy for the help. She had two young children…boys…”

Jeyne was watching him with a furrowed brow, no doubt curious where this was going.

“I intended to keep my word. I really did. But on the third night or so, she showed me the gold necklace her husband had given to her. Woman had no idea what she had, but I knew I could get real money for it. And she just left it on her nightstand when she went to bed at night. I…decided to take it and run while she and the kids were asleep. Only…only she woke up just as I was sneaking out the door. She kept screaming and yelling, and then she tried to wrestle the necklace out of my hands. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to _push_ her so hard, but she was so small and fragile.”

_The way I’m small and fragile to Lord Ramsay._

“She hit her head on the cooking stove and didn’t get up. There was so much blood. I think…I think she was dead even before the fire started. We…we must have knocked over a candle or something, because the entire cottage…” He had to pause to breathe here. “The thing is, the boys…I didn’t even check. They were up in the loft, asleep in their bed. I might have been able to save them, but I was so scared.”

“You ran,” Jeyne finished his thought.

He nodded, shame burning his cheeks. “Ramsay gave me sanctuary from the villagers who would have strung me up.”

“That’s a terrible story.” Her face was neutral.

“I know. I guess I deserve this then.” He gave her an awkward smile to show off his new stitches.

“No.” She shook her head as she gathered up her basket. “If the villagers had caught you, you’d have gotten what you deserve. Instead you’re being punished for trusting a Vampyre. They like to draw you in of your own accord, and once you’re in, they never let you go. That’s the game they play. That’s what both of us are really being punished for.”

Theon stared at her and she stared back. There was still so much sympathy in her brown eyes, even after all he’d told her.

She turned to go, pausing at the door to indicate his stitches. “It shouldn’t scar too bad.”


	6. Learning What He’s for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few cameos in this chapter, but I'm not tagging them because it's a surprise.
> 
> Also, things start to go off the rails here. It might start to get weird...

The stitches left tiny scars along his upper lip, hardly noticeable when he grew his stubble out. A month had passed, and every day returned a little more of his strength. He nearly cried the first time Jeyne brought him some bread and milk. He had truly begun to think he’d never eat anything but bloody meat forever.

“Your color’s looking better,” she said as he ate the bread with minimal chewing. “You look good.” She flushed red and turned away.

Theon had never thought of himself as especially attractive. Not ugly, certainly, but not the type nice village girls like Jeyne could throw themselves at. And then Ros had laughed at him and he’d lost all confidence in his looks. To have Jeyne say something like that now brought back feelings of the man he’d been with, how special he had felt.

He probably had enough blood to flush at her compliment, except the implication sent his heart beating all the way down in the pit of his stomach. “I suppose he’ll want to take my blood again.”

She chewed at her lip. “Probably not until he wants to make a power grab.”

Theon gave her a questioning look.

“Your blood is more powerful by virtue of being his blood slave. He won’t…feed from you. Not like with other humans.”

“What will he use me for, then?”

“When he needs an advantage in a fight with another Vampyre. A blood slave’s blood can boost their master’s strength, speed, and senses. With a particularly strong bond, a Vampyre could even survive in sunlight.” She fiddled with the hem of her apron. “I’ve hear it said, at least.”

“Jeyne.” Something had been bothering him since his meeting with Lord Bolton. The curtness between them. _Expecting me to die soon, boy?_ “Do you think he means to use me to kill his Sire?”

Her teeth were back, gnawing on her lower lip. She looked like a timid little mouse.

“Yes,” she answered softly.

Theon clenched the sheets under him. “Do you think he’ll be able to win?”

She averted her eyes. “No.”

“What will happen to me if he loses?”

She began to gather up the empty plates. The only sound was the silverware clinking together, but he could tell from the crease in her brow that she was considering her answer.

“I don’t know.”

That was probably as truthful as she could get without naming a hundred horrible things that could happen.

“I don’t think he’ll challenge the Head Vampyre first, though.” She didn’t exactly smile so much as grimace. “He’ll start with smaller, lower Vampyres he wants to get rid of. I suspect he’ll go after Lord Damon first.”

“Damon?” Theon said. “The one with the blond hair?” He’d seen the Vampyre and his two cronies on an occasion or two, usually scuttling about the halls when he’d grown too restless to remain in his room any longer. Of course, he’d always made a point of keeping his encounters brief. He didn’t need Ramsay’s warning to realize being alone with another Vampyre was unwise.

“Lord Ramsay has wanted to be rid of Lord Damon for years.” Jeyne managed an awkward shrug with her arms piled high with dishes. “I don’t know the nature of their feud, and I don’t care to. Damon will lose in a fight between them, though. You have no need to fear that.”

She left Theon with an ominous pit in his stomach.

Or perhaps it was portentous, because not long after the sun had set, Ramsay appeared at his doorway and nonchalantly proclaimed, “I need your blood.”

Theon felt like the leather collar was constricting, cutting off air from his lungs.

“Come.” Ramsay snapped his fingers, and Theon leapt to his feet like a trained dog. “You must get dressed for our guest.”

“Guest?”

“Someone who has journeyed a long way to insult me and challenge me to a duel.”

He led Theon to the dressing room with the horrible mirrors. Although his appearance had generally improved over the past month—his frame filling out, his skin regaining its pallor—his eyes seemed even more sunken than before, the sharp lines of his face more haggard. Theon couldn’t see the man Jeyne saw, the one who “looked good.”

A set if real clothes didn’t do much to change his mind. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to wear breeches and shoes, let alone vests and overcoats. Ramsay must have an expert tailor working for him, because the rich black fabric fit like a second skin. Theon couldn’t decide if he felt more like a slave or a lord.

“You look marvelous,” Ramsay said appreciatively. “Delicious.” He ran a pink tongue over colorless lips. “Let’s hope our guest doesn’t want to take you from me.” He leaned in close as they exited the dressing room together. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

The halls were busy tonight, servants passing both ways, growing thicker the closer they got to the receiving room. The sounds of banter echoed off the stones, growing in volume as they passed through the high, narrow corridor to come out through the archway into the great hall.

It wasn’t difficult to tell who was whom. The Vampyres were dressed in finery and held wine glasses as they ignored the bustling of the servants; the humans ran to fill the wine glasses with a thick, red liquid poured from silver pitchers. From the throne-like chair, Lord Bolton sat watching but not partaking in the drink, a look of abject boredom on his face.

A woman Vampyre was the first to notice their arrival. Her legs were concealed under a not-quite-blood-red dress, but she appeared to glide on air as she approached. Her lips were painted red, and they quirked as she greeted Ramsay.

“Ramsay, I was afraid you’d run with your tail between your legs.” She turned eyes the color of a cold spring morning towards Theon. “This is your bond slave? He is quite charming, though nothing compared to my Sansa.”

Ramsay breathed our slowly through his nose. “Shall we forgo the formalities, Cersei?” He brought himself to his full height. “Let us settle our score, right now, in front of your court and mine.”

Theon stared in shock. This was their guest? This woman? She was tall, but so slender a strong breeze would have surely knocked her over. And Ramsay meant to duel her?

The woman smiled tightly. “Then let us fight.” She threw her wine glass to the ground. It shattered and spilled its contents across the foyer, and every head swiveled towards them.

Theon felt even less dressed with every eye upon him. Here he was in his fancy new clothes and he might as well not be wearing them, or anything at all.

The woman cleared her throat. “I, Cersei of House Lannister, challenge Ramsay of House Bolton to battle.”

There was silence.

“So be it,” Lord Bolton said from his chair. He gave a careless wave of his hand. “To the death it is.”

An excited murmur overtook the room as the crowd parted to form a broad ring with Ramsay and Cersei in the center. Cersei snapped her fingers, and a small slip of a woman came running. She was dressed in a simple white shift, red hair billowing out behind her. Even if her speed to obey her mistress weren’t a dead giveaway, Theon recognized the collar she wore. A blood slave. The only other he’d seen thus far. She stared out at him from hollow eyes, not really seeing him.

He wasn’t given much time to contemplate her before Ramsay was bending over him, fingers moving deftly at the heavy lock at the front of his collar. With a soft click, the leather came undone, and oxygen flooded Theon’s lungs. Unconsciously, he tilted his head back, stretching muscles that hadn’t been used in weeks. A pathetic whine escaped his lips.

Cersei was undoing her blood slave’s collar as well. The smaller woman seemed used to this sort of treatment, because she stood perfectly still while the collar was removed. Then she leaned her head away, obediently baring her neck for her mistress. Cersei looked across the way, pointedly meeting Ramsay’s eyes as she gathered the girl in her arms, lowered her face, and sank her teeth into the girl’s thin neck.

Immediately, the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head and an obscene moan escaped through parted lips. It was the same noise Ros had made when Theon first entered her—pained, pleasured, shocked, overwhelmed. Had he made such a noise when Ramsay had sealed their bond in the woods?

He stood transfixed at the sight of Cersei drinking in her little blood slave, and then his head was wrenched back and Ramsay was burying teeth deep in his neck too.

He’d forgotten how much it hurt, the teeth like steak knives parting the skin to get to the blood beneath. Ramsay’s lips locked on, sucking and pulling the life essence from his body. He could feel every last drop as it left through where he and Ramsay were joined. His heart beat fast, then slower, and he became aware of a low keening that seemed to be coming from inside him.

Just as his eyelids began to feel heavy, Ramsay pulled free. Theon was gently moved to the side, where the on-looking Vampyres gladly accepted him into their ranks. Ramsay ran a gentle hand along Theon’s cheek and gave him an affectionate smile. “Watch what your blood does to me, Theon,” he said before heading back to the center of the ring to meet Cersei.

The two Vampyres faced off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Joffrey would have been the better choice, but a.) I've noticed a disturbing lack of femslash of any kind in my stories and b.) who do you really think would make a more intimidating vampire: Joffrey or Cersei? Let's be honest with ourselves.


	7. Being Useful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and commenters,   
> I'm running out of clever ways to say thank you.   
> So thank you.  
> You know, again.

Cersei moved first. Theon would have put her on the disadvantage of this match—with her willowy frame, full skirts slowing her movements, and her overall ladylike demeanor—but he saw the flaw in his judgement when she lunged forward and scratched Ramsay across the face with talon-like nails. Ramsay reeled back with a startled, pained grunt. Blood seeped through his fingers as he covered his face in his hands. Cersei gave a triumphant hiss and backhanded him. Ramsay fell to one knee, hands coming away from his face as he tried to recover himself, revealing three bloody claw marks travelling diagonally from chin to brow. Blood was pooling in his eyes, blinding him, so it was no wonder he was so slow to regain his footing. Cersei wouldn’t give him the time, however, as a savage kick from under her skirts sent him sprawling on the ground.

All around, the Vampyres cheered. Theon cast a furtive glance to Lord Bolton to see if he would call the fight off. He was still seated in his chair, one arm propping up his head as he watched through lidded eyes. Cersei was now stomping her sharp-heeled boot into Ramsay’s throat, again and again, and still it seemed Lord Bolton would not interfere on behalf of his heir.

Cersei grinned wickedly as the crowd cheered her on. “Pathetic little upstart,” she snarled as she dug her heel in Ramsay’s chest and twisted. “I wonder who they’ll make heir of this forsaken castle after I’ve killed you. I was going to take your blood slave for my own, but seeing how weak his blood is, I might just use him as a quick fuck-toy. Doesn’t seem like he’s good for anything else, if his blood can’t even stop me from doing this.”

Her heel cut into Ramsay’s stomach, and he howled. More blood poured from the new wound and dribbled from his open mouth.

“If he’s alive after I get done with him,” she continued, bending in close to Ramsay so that Theon could barely hear, “I’ll give your little blood slave to my guards. That’ll give them a good time after this poor show you’ve put on for us.”

Theon gritted his teeth. “No,” he said.

Cersei stopped to look at him, and the entire hall went silent as all eyes turned to Theon.

He steeled himself against their gaze and focused on Ramsay, who was sputtering blood from his mouth. Their eyes locked from halfway across the room, and Theon’s heart picked up its rhythm.

“Get up,” he said, taking a step forward. None of the Vampyres made a move to stop him. “Fight her, Ramsay. Show her that I’m _your_ blood slave and nobody else’s. Just like you told me.”

Stunned silence followed, until Cersei sneered. “I’ll tear your throat out instead. That ought to keep you quiet.”

She lifted her boot to land another blow, but that was the moment Ramsay lifted his arm. His hand shot out and wrapped around Cersei’s ankle. In one quick, jerky movement, their positions were reversed, Cersei on her knees on the ground, Ramsay standing over her.

“Might I suggest you’re the one who needs to keep quiet,” he snarled. He looked like a crazed beast, pale eyes wide, pupils blown, teeth bared.

With one hand on Cersei’s chin and the other pressed against her temple, he had her head in a vice. Theon had once seen a farmer snap a sheep’s neck using this exact technique. He thought he knew what was coming, but instead of the cracking of bone came the wet sound of rending flesh. With a bestial growl, Ramsay pulled on her neck and separated her head from her body. It wasn’t quick. Cersei knew what was happening. She shrieked and thrashed in vain. Ramsay was strong. Stronger than even Theon had thought. The head came off with a fleshly plop, and Cersei’s body slumped forward.

Stunned silence, and then the Vampyres erupted in cheers. Ramsay let the head fall and roll as some of them came to clap him on the back. One of their own was dead and they were celebrating? It was monstrous, and yet Theon was so overcome with relief that he sank to his knees.

He wasn’t aware of anything around him until Ramsay’s presence towered over him. He lifted his head to see Ramsay extending a hand to him. The tall man was a mass of torn flesh and blood, but an almost kind smile showed through his ruined face. Theon took his hand.

His legs wobbled, but Ramsay held him close and steadied him. In the midst of these bloodsucking monsters, Theon felt oddly safe. Ramsay had proven his strength to the Vampyres and was now using his strength to protect him. He leaned against the strong chest, ignoring the blood.

“Very well.” Everyone turned to see Lord Bolton, who had not moved once during the fight. Theon hoped it was because he’d had so much faith in his heir and not general apathy. “Ramsay of House Bolton is the clear victor.”

Another round of cheering.

“The Head Vampyre of House Lannister will not be best pleased, but it cannot be helped.” He slumped back in his chair. “The Lannisters are still our guests according to custom, but seeing as the deceased Lannister had a human blood slave in her service…I take it there is no argument on the matter of inheritance?”

Nobody spoke up for the human girl, who had crawled forward to cradle her mistress’s head in her lap. Had she truly cared for Cersei, or was she terrified of her unknown fate?

“What do you say, Theon?” Ramsay flung his arm over Theon’s shoulder as he gave the girl—Sansa, was it?—a cursory once-over. “Should I take her on as my second blood slave?”

Theon felt a sting he couldn’t begin to explain: jealousy. “No,” he mumbled. “If I’m only yours, you have to be only mine.”

Ramsay chuckled. His deep voice sent Theon’s entire body ringing. “She’d make a poor blood slave anyway. Just look at how well she served her mistress.”

Sansa looked up with red-rimmed eyes, clearly stricken at her failure.

Ramsay licked his lips. “All of this activity has gotten my appetite up. I could use a meal, even one as pitiful as her.”

Sansa dropped Cersei’s head as Ramsay stepped forward.

“No.” Theon dug his feet in to stop Ramsay, but the Vampyre was too strong to be held back. Theon began to panic. He certainly didn’t want to see the girl hurt. “Stop. Don’t.”

To his surprise, Ramsay did stop. He looked down on Theon with a wry smile. “Still jealous? Very well, I’ll give her to my guards to have fun with.” He turned his leer back to Sansa. “That will be fitting, won’t it?”

Tears formed in Sansa’s eyes as she began to scrabble away from him, nails clicking against the stone as if searching for purchase.

“No.” Theon felt like a child tugging on its mother’s shirtsleeve. “Don’t hurt her. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

Ramsay turned back to him with a dubious look. Theon vowed not to be intimidated and stood his ground with his return glare. Ramsay didn’t so much as twitch. There was little doubt who would win in a staring match between them.

That’s why Theon was surprised when Ramsay inclined his head. “I’d forgotten how soft-hearted humans were.”

“Please don’t hurt her,” Theon said again, lowering his eyes submissively. “Send her to work in the kitchen. Or the laundry. You did say servants were difficult to come by.”

“I did say that.” He lifted his head, and his voice carried across the hall. “This human is a servant of Castle Bolton. No one is to harm her.” He nodded his head to a pair of servants who had gathered in the wings. “Take her to the servants’ quarters. Get her cleaned up.”

They hurried to do as they were bid, each taking hold of either arm and lifting the trembling girl between them.

As they carried her away, Ramsay called after them, “Burn her collar. She’ll not be needing it anymore.”

Ramsay announced to the room that he would be retiring, and he and Theon left, both supporting each other. In truth, Theon didn’t realize how much he was keeping Ramsay on his feet until they reached the second story landing. There, Ramsay broke his grip to lean against the wall. A glob of blood dribbled from his mouth.

“You need a healer,” Theon said. Was that real concern in his own voice? He almost didn’t believe it.

“I will heal on my own,” Ramsay said with a pained grunt as he clutched the wound on his stomach. “I need to feed, though. Human blood will speed the process.”

Theon stood very still for a moment, contemplating the wisdom of his next movement.

“Take mine.”

Ramsay lifted his head, an expression that could only be surprise etched on his face. Then, quick to catch himself, he smiled and shook his head. “No. I’ve already taken too much from you tonight.”

“Not as much as before.” Theon didn’t understand why he was arguing. “I didn’t black out. I feel…okay.” He stepped into the space Ramsay created with his frame and bared his neck, puncture wounds still oozing. “You can have more.”

“No!” The sound that came out of Ramsay’s throat was half-hiss, half-snarl. Like an angry animal. “It would kill you. I would not be able to stop myself.”

“Yes you would.” Theon tilted his head until the wound hurt and he could feel the twin trails of warm blood slithering down his neck. “I want you to.”

Ramsay pulled him into a tight embrace, and Theon had to remind himself not to recoil. This was what he wanted. He waited for lips to latch onto his wound, to bring blossoming pain. He was taken by surprise when a pair of cold lips met his own.

This was a kiss. A true kiss. Ramsay’s lips caressed his, massaging, just barely pressing in. A tongue ran along Theon’s lower lip, and his opened to welcome it. For all the Vampyre’s cold skin, the inside of his mouth was warm, blazingly hot even. The taste was odd and metallic, and it took Theon longer than it should have to realize he was tasting his own blood.

After a gentle moment, Ramsay broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Theon’s. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you.”

Theon’s pulse pounded in his ears, but he wasn’t sure it was entirely from fear. “But you can’t?”

“I would kill you.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

Ramsay sighed. “Your human body is too fragile. I could break every bone in your body, on accident.” His hands went to Theon’s hips. “I could break your pelvis, or crush your insides. I could snap your neck. I could even lose control of myself and drain every last drop of blood from your body in a bloodlust haze.” He pulled back so that their eyes could meet. “I’ve grown too fond of you to throw you away like that.”

It felt like a slap to the face, though Theon couldn’t say why. He stood dumbstruck, jaw gaping. It was the closest thing to a confession of love he’d ever received. Were Vampyres capable of love? Worse, was he capable of loving a Vampyre, let alone one who had been humiliating him and keeping him prisoner in this castle for over a month?

He didn’t want to think too long on any of these questions, so he looked away.

“Come.” Ramsay turned his head back with a gentle finger under his chin. “Your wound needs tending to, and then you must rest.”

Theon nodded and allowed himself to be led back to his room. Ramsay lifted him up and laid him on the bed, and Theon didn’t even protest. Maybe he was beginning to like feeling small. Feeling like Ramsay would protect him. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be taken care of.

He leaned back into the pillows as sleep crept up on him. His eyes were so heavy, he nearly groaned out loud as Jeyne entered to interrupt his sleep. She had her medical basket with her, but hopefully his wounds wouldn’t require any stitches.

She took in the sight of him before turning to Ramsay. “Shall I have dinner sent up after I’m done?”

Ramsay stared at her with an odd look. He crossed the room in three easy strides, took her in his arms, and buried his teeth in her neck. Her surprised face stared out over his shoulder, and Theon saw realization dawning in her eyes as her life was drained away.

All ability to act had been stolen by shock. Theon sat and stared and watched as Jeyne’s rosy cheeks turned the color of parchment and the light left her brown eyes. Did it happen too quickly to do anything or had he sat frozen in horror for eternity? Whichever, when Ramsay released her body, she was dead.

The basket fell from her limp hands, spilling its contents across the floor. Jeyne joined them, as boneless and lifeless as a ragdoll.

“No, Jeyne,” Ramsay said, licking the blood from his lips. “That will be all.”


	8. Contemplating Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to keep foisting my terrible fanart on you until you beg me to stop. Actually, this isn't so much "fanart" as it is screenshot manipulation, because Disney and ASoIaF/GoT are two great tastes that go great together. In theory, at least.
> 
> Original screenshots:  
> [1](http://i0.wp.com/www.caps.media/198/9-tlm/full/little-mermaid-1080p-disneyscreencaps.com-9265.jpg), [2](http://i0.wp.com/m.screencaps.us/199/6-hunchback/full/hunchback-of-the-notre-dame-disneyscreencaps.com-3969.jpg), [3](http://i0.wp.com/www.caps.media/198/9-tlm/full/little-mermaid-1080p-disneyscreencaps.com-8674.jpg).

For days afterwards, Theon cursed himself. _I should have done something. I saved Sansa. Why couldn’t I save Jeyne?_

The simple answer was that Ramsay was a monster. If he hadn’t killed Jeyne, he would have killed someone else. It meant so little to him. He’d probably killed hundreds of humans over his three-hundred-forty-two-year life.

And Theon had wondered if he’d be able to love such a monster. What a fool he’d been, to be lured into a false sense of security with flattering words. It made him ill.

It was all he could do to eat the meat-laden courses Ramsay sent, and only then because memories of lips of his, forcing food into his mouth, sent his skin to itching. He ate obediently so as not to give his captor an excuse to touch him.

The girl Sansa had taken over Jeyne’s duties, perhaps as some cruel means of mocking him. She never spoke, and it was clear she’d never served before. She had trouble lifting heavy trays and couldn’t pour water from a pitcher without sloshing it all over.

She was thin and growing thinner every day. Eventually, Theon couldn’t stand it. Were they starving her down in the kitchens? When she brought him the next steak on a silver platter, he handed his fork to her. “You lost as much blood as I did,” he said in answer to her bewildered stare. “I won’t tell Lord Ramsay if you don’t.”

He managed to foist several of his meals onto her. He might have congratulated himself on his charity were it not for the fact that he took greater joy in slighting Ramsay in this small way. Truth was, he’d never been one to care about others. Not cruel or even particularly indifferent, but he’d so often been more concerned with himself. Only helping others when it suited him.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he spent many hours wondering if he could have done more to save Jeyne.

He took walks around the castle, unescorted. He hated his room, hated the way it smelled and the way the walls pushed in on him. He could hardly breathe in its stifling environment and relieved himself by exploring the castle.

He memorized the hallways, the stairwells, which ones led where and which ones led nowhere. There were plenty of dead ends in Castle Bolton, darkened alcoves where he could tuck himself away for hours. There was a library on the second floor, but Theon didn’t know how to read and it held little interest for him. There was an apothecary’s lab in the east wing, but the smell of it reminded him of Jeyne and her medical kit.

After he had exhausted all possibilities aboveground, he made his way downwards, into the crypts. They were surprisingly well-maintained, free of dust and cobwebs, cold but dry. The steps were worn so smooth that he had to take care not to trip. There were rooms and rooms of unburied coffins down here, much like the one in Lord Bolton’s room. If Theon came down while the sun was still up, the lids would be closed tight. He would sometimes sit and contemplate which one held Ramsay. The thought of that man asleep and helpless gave him odd ideas.

“How do you kill them?”

Sansa glanced up sharply from her meal.

“Vampyres,” Theon clarified. “You must know a way.”

She stared but, as usual, remained silent.

“You’d kill them if you could, though.” Theon scooted closer to her on the bed, conspiratorially. “Lord Ramsay. You’d kill him if you got the chance.”

She glanced around to make sure they were alone. She gave a tiny nod.

Theon smiled. “Are you glad Cersei is dead?”

Her eyes went wide. She shook her head.

“Really?” Theon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Did you…care for her?”

Sansa said nothing.

Theon scoffed in disgust. She must have taken this as a sign of dismissal, because she gathered up the tray.

On the way out the door, she paused, opened her mouth, paused again, and finally said, “Mistress protected me.”

It was the first he had ever heard her speak, and the unexpectedness of it caught him off-guard.

“She would not have protected me if she didn’t love me.”

“She protected you because she owned you,” he shot back.

She shook her head in fierce denial but said no more.

“If you could call what she did to you even protection.”

Sansa said nothing.

He sighed and she ducked out of the room.

Once she was gone, restlessness set in. Theon got out of bed. Ramsay had not seen fit to take the pants back, and the addition of more clothing made Theon’s ventures into the outside castle more comfortable, not only for added warmth, but also the added modesty. Shoes were still forthcoming, however, and his feet were forced to care for themselves as he descended into the crypts.

It was the dead of daylight, and Theon was the only soul stirring down here. Torch in hand, he made his way to the innermost room, where the most elaborate coffins stood stacked against the walls. He’d narrowed it down to among these five as the potential resting place of Lord Ramsay. They were all of them black with gold trim, differentiated only by slight changes to the sigil etchings on each. Theon couldn’t read heraldry any better than he could read a book, and so he sat and watched.

The torch flickered, causing his own shadow to dance along the wall. He was startled when a second shadow joined his. As far as he knew, he was the only living thing that ever ventured down here.

He still was, it seemed, because when he turned, he saw Lord Bolton standing in the archway, arms clasped behind his back. That was even more surprising. All good Vampyres were supposed to sleep during the day.

“I’m too old to be bothered by a little sunlight,” Lord Bolton said in response to the dumbfounded expression no doubt gracing Theon’s face. Lord Bolton strode forward on his jerky-graceful legs. “You come here quite often. What do you think about as you sit there, day after day?”

“I think about killing your son,” Theon replied honestly.

Lord Bolton didn’t flinch in the slightest. “You might find it a difficult endeavor,” he said as if warning Theon not to go out in the rain.

“But it can be done.” If Lord Bolton was going to be casual about this, Theon would meet him. “I know your kind can be killed by taking your heads off.” Yes, Cersei was definitely dead. “I thought sunlight might do it, but you’ve just proven me wrong on that.”

“Sunlight would certainly damage a younger Vampyre,” Lord Bolton said with a judicious grin. “Perhaps even kill him. It would be difficult to orchestrate such a scenario as to lead a young Vampyre out into the daylight. Ramsay has his flaws, but he is not gullible.”

“Tell me.”

Lord Bolton cocked his head.

“What are Ramsay’s flaws?”

“You think I would give you the ammunition to kill me heir?” He seemed less angry and more amused. “I would like to see you try. We both know that you would not succeed.”

Theon clenched his hands into firsts. He could not agree, no out loud.

“In any case, I doubt I could tell you anything which you have no surmised. You’re intelligent enough, for a peasant. Surely you must have realized by now that Ramsay lacks more self-control than he would have either of us believe.”

Theon nodded. He’d first noticed it after meeting Lord Bolton, the way Ramsay had held himself similarly and used the most even-keeled language he could, as if imitating his Sire. It slipped, though. Just occasionally, in the heat of the moment. He could be baited.

Theon had no idea how to use this information though. Not in a way that would benefit him.

“Piercing him through the heart would be the best course of action,” Lord Bolton said. Then, eyeing Theon skeptically, he added, “Thought I doubt you could manage it with your current strength.”

“I’m stronger than you think.”

“Perhaps.”

Theon stood, flinched as his bare feet burned against the cold floor. “Why are you telling me this, anyway? Do you want me to kill your heir? Is that it?”

“If he could be killed by the likes of you, he would not be worthy of being my heir.”

“What would you do if I did manage to kill him?”

“I have other fledglings, though I do not relish the idea of spending the next one hundred years grooming a new heir.”

“What would happen to me?”

“If you managed to kill Ramsay, I suppose you could do whatever you like. Leave. Stay. I could make you a Vampyre.”

Theon shook his head. “I don’t want to become what you are.”

Lord Bolton shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. “Most men would not turn down an offer of immorality.”

“Most would,” Theon argued back, “if they knew it would cost countless human lives.” The image of the woman bleeding out on her floor flashed before his eyes. Dreams of her children screaming, still alive as everything burned down around them, still kept him from peaceful sleep. He was a murderer, whether he’d intended it or not. To commit the same crime, willfully, year after year until the end of time, made him nauseous.

“Human lives mean little when you’re not human,” Lord Bolton began slowly, a patient instructor. “Have you ever pondered the cattle whose lives were given for your steak, or the chickens?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why is it acceptable for humans to take the lives of lesser beings? To keep them as pets, as tools?”

“It’s not the same,” he repeated. “There’s no cruelty in what we do.”

“The lesser beings might disagree. It is awfully convenient that they cannot protest their treatment.”

Theon wouldn’t listen to this anymore. Why was he even bothering to argue with a creature who saw him as a “lesser being?” Fists still clenched, he brushed past the other man, who stepped aside smoothly to let him pass.

“You were a human once too,” he grumbled under his breath, though he was certain Lord Bolton could still hear him. “You all were. You were once those same ‘lesser beings’ you murder now.”

“A long time ago,” Lord Bolton agreed. “I hardly remember it.”


	9. Becoming a Pawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing really pertinent to say except thanks for the continued support. I could (and probably should) keep my stories to myself, but as long as you guys keep reading and liking, I'll keep posting. Hope you enjoy the penultimate chapter.

“You’ve been very quiet tonight, Theon.” Ramsay sidled up next to him and placed deceptively gentle hands on his shoulders. “You’re not still cross with me for killing your maidservant, are you? I did replace her, didn’t I?”

Now Theon saw the point of this charade—dressing him up, taking him about the castle. This was an apology. A poor one, an insincere one, but an apology nonetheless.

Theon sighed and set down his fork. It was difficult to eat with those spider-like hands crawling all over him, no matter how fine the meal in the grand dining hall, empty save the two of them. The wine, the bread, the cheese, the carved chicken, the honey cakes—no, not a single bit of red meat to be found—none of it could compel Theon to let this monster think he’d won him over.

“I’m full,” he proclaimed and wondered if Ramsay would force feed him again even if the meal in question did nothing for his blood.

Ramsay merely sighed. If Theon didn’t know better, he’d say it was a sound of sadness, perhaps regret. “I am sorry I frightened you.”

Not regret for killing Jeyne, then. Regret that he had faltered in his seduction. Theon bit the inside of his cheek to think how close Ramsay had actually come to succeeding.

“Come now. You were not nearly so reticent when I gave you these.” Ramsay ran the pad of his thumb where the scars from the stitches had begun to fade along Theon’s lip. “It has been a fortnight since that indiscretion with your servant.” He leaned in close to nuzzle Theon’s neck. “You loved it when I kissed you before. I could smell it on you.”

Theon slid his chair back and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“You’re being ungrateful.”

Theon scoffed. He turned to go, but Ramsay grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back. Arm wrapped around his waist and the solid wall of Ramsay’s body was pushed flush against his back. And something else hard and solid was digging into the dip in his spine. Theon felt every hair on his body stand on end as Ramsay bent over and whispered huskily into his ear, “Seeing you so ungrateful makes me want to punish you.” He grazed his teeth over Theon’s ear.

 _This is it_ , he thought. _He’s going to rape me, kill me, and drink my blood. I wonder which order he’ll go in._

But Ramsay just continued to nuzzle him. The slight bucking of his hips was the only indication that he was aroused. “I’ll have Sire turn you,” he breathed. “Then I’ll get to fuck you.” He breathed in deeply. “No, then I won’t be able to drink your blood. Such a quandary. You confuse me, Theon.”

Then, as abruptly as it had happened, Ramsay released him. It was so sudden, Theon stumbled at the loss of his support.

“When I’m Head Vampyre, I’ll turn you. Until then, I’ll bide my time.”

He left the room in a flourish.

Theon steadied himself against the back of the dining chair. “ _You_ confuse me, Lord Ramsay.”

He wouldn’t allow Ramsay or anyone else to turn him. He’d kill himself before that happened. Yes, the man who’d sold himself to these creatures to save his own life would rather die than become one of them. The thought of dying—let alone at his own hand—made him want to fall to the floor crying. He was afraid. But even more than that, he was afraid that if it came to it, he’d be too afraid to do it himself.

The collar was chafing with the way he hung his head off the back off the chair. Most days he didn’t even notice its presence. He was becoming used to it, and that was frightening too.

Ramsay probably wanted him to go back to his room, but that wasn’t going to happen. If Ramsay didn’t want him wandering around the castle, he shouldn’t have left him unattended. Theon exited the back way from the dining hall, through the kitchens where the servants were busy preparing their own meals, and down the hallway to the big windows that looked out onto the courtyard.

More snow had fallen since last he’d been here, making smooth work of the bench where Ramsay had torn his mouth to bloody bits. It was like nothing of any notice had ever happened there.

Theon leaned his forehead against the glass. In addition to the collar, he was also becoming used to the cold. It seemed impossible that spring would ever come to such a place. The castle and grounds would be just as desolate in summer.

“What are you doing here all by your lonesome, child?”

Theon hadn’t heard anyone approach, but his head shot up to see the red-cloaked Damon standing by his side, a crocodile grin on his face.

As much as Theon detested Ramsay, at least he knew Ramsay would not risk killing him. He couldn’t say the same of Damon.

“I was leaving.” He tried to keep his voice even as he backed away.

“Oh, don’t leave on our account.”

He whirled to see the other two cronies—the wild woman and the bear of a man—blocking his way. Their intent was clear in their shared leer and manic grin.

Theon flattened himself against the wall so as to have his back to none of them. “Stand aside,” he said, summoning his most imperious voice, which was so pathetic the woman chuckled into her hand. “I mean it. I’ll scream. If you don’t want Lord Ramsay to—”

The Vampyres were quick. His words were muffled as a hand clamped over his mouth. He didn’t even realize which of them had grabbed him until he saw the flash of red out of his peripheral vision.

“Quiet, you,” Damon hissed into his ear. “You’re speaking to the new heir of Lord Bolton. Show the proper respect to your new master.”

“Not the heir yet,” a masculine voice that could only belong to the bear man said in hushed tones.

“Right,” the woman agreed when Damon snarled at being challenged. “We best move this somewhere more private for the time being.”

Theon felt the defensiveness go out of Damon’s stance. “I have just the place. Alyn, would you…?”

“With pleasure.”

There was some sort of half-spoken agreement between them, but Theon didn’t understand what it was until he saw the bear man’s fist coming at his face.

Then blackness.

***

He came to in a sea of dark, swimming images. It felt like his face had been caved in, and he couldn’t distinguish whether the coppery sensation at the back of his throat was a smell or a taste. Both his nose and tongue felt fuzzy.

Voices were talking.

“I want to eat now.”

“Won’t be any fun if he’s not awake.”

“You hit him too hard. He could be out for hours.”

“Then we’ll chain him up. He can scream all he wants down here. Nobody will hear him.”

“I think he’s moving.”

A face was peering into his when he cracked his eyes open. It took a while for the individual parts to come together, and bit by bit Theon pieced the face together. The bear man. Was his name Alyn?

“He’s awake,” Alyn bellowed, and he may as well have punched him in the face again. Theon’s entire skull hurt as he was hoisted into a sitting position. A hand slapped him. Or maybe it was a gentle pat. He couldn’t tell. “Wake up.”

When the world around him stopped spinning, a room with bare stone walls came into focus. Well, not completely bare. There were chains and manacles here and there, and the odd sconce. The room itself was not completely bare either. Besides himself and three Vampyres, there was also a wide, low table that definitely looked like it was used for torturing prisoners. Theon knew then that he probably wasn’t getting out of this alive, let alone unscathed.

He struggled when the hands came, lifting him up and bearing him towards the table, as he knew they would. He struggled even though he knew it was useless. It had always been useless. His captors were apparently expecting him to put up a better fight because he heard Damon mutter, “Come on, wake you. You can do better than that.” But he couldn’t. He really couldn’t.

Still, he thrashed as he was slammed onto the table. The bite of the grain lodged splinters under his skin. Someone was pinning his shoulders—the woman, going by the slenderness of her fingers. She was as strong as Alyn, though easily half his size.

Damon came around front, and Theon kicked out at the man. He wanted to knock the teeth out of that grin with the heel of his boot. Of course, he wasn’t wearing shoes, and even if he had been, he wouldn’t have done enough damage. Damon smiled at his jerking movements before eventually grabbing hold of his shins and pinning his legs in place.

“We’ve got a willful little blood slave here.”

“What should we do with him?” the woman said, nearly chuckling with such genuine mirth that she couldn’t get her scripted lines out. “I’ve never had a blood slave of my own. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Respect,” Alyn’s voice boomed out. “Respect and manners. That is where you start in training a blood slave.”

Damon’s hands crept up Theon’s thighs, parting his legs. “Ramsay has not done a good enough job of training you, has he, little one?”

“My blood won’t be any good to you.” Theon struggled to lift his head off the table. He needed to be able to see what Damon was doing. “I’m Ramsay’s blood slave, not yours. I never agreed to serve you.” He was bluffing. They knew he was bluffing. “You need a willing human.”

“Maybe we’re not interested in using you as a blood slave,” Damon said. “Maybe we’re more interested in sending Ramsay a message.” He lifted his head to consult with his two cronies. “What do you think will send the strongest message?”

“Personally,” Alyn said in that low, grumbling voice, “I’d like to see what Ramsay sees in this little shit.”

“You mean ‘tastes,’” the woman snickered. “Let me try first.”

“We don’t have the key for the collar,” Alyn reminded her.

“Never mind the collar.” Damon waved his arm for her to hurry up. “Go ahead, Myranda. We’ll hold him for you.”

“Hmm,” she purred, and Theon dropped his head back on the table to better watch as she came around. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” She grabbed hold of Theon’s arm and forced him to spread it flat. She took her time rolling his sleeve up to his elbow, tickling the soft, pale flesh on the underside of his arm. He shuddered and flinched whenever her fingers brushed along his skin. “You’re going to be a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

She smiled and winked and bit into his wrist. Theon howled as her sharp teeth dug through tendons to get at the veins beneath. The pain shot from the tips of his fingers up into his elbow, and his fist clenched and unclenched in rapid spasms. “Stop!”

To his surprise, she did. She threw her head back, whipping her long, tangled hair over her shoulder, and released the contented sigh of a woman coming up for air. Blood dribbled in rivulets down her chin, and she made no move to wipe it away.

“Well?” Alyn asked expectantly.

She licked her lips. “Pretty good. I’ve had better, but…” She licked the wound she’d made on his wrist. “It has a satisfying quality to it.”

“I’ll have to try myself,” Damon said. Hands were on Theon’s thighs again, clutching the fabric of his breeches and tearing them away.

Theon lifted his knees and tried to curl in on himself for whatever pathetic protection that would bring, but he was denied even that modesty as Damon forced his legs out and apart, baring him. Theon couldn’t watch. He turned his head and closed his eyes against whatever Damon had planned.

“What do you think, Myranda? Something you’d like to ride on?”

Myranda sniffed. “Doubt he could get hard for me. You can drink a man’s blood or you can fuck him, but not both at the same time.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alyn said with a throaty chuckle.

“You’ll be fucking a corpse then,” Myranda hissed.

“And I call dibs on that,” Damon said. “You can have him after I’m done, if his body is still warm, that is.” Theon felt Damon move, fist releasing the hold on his legs, then crawling up and onto the table, where his full weight was bearing down on the tiny body beneath him. “Let’s make you a nice corpse for fucking.”

Theon cried out as Damon’s fangs pierced the inside of his upper thigh. Lips were working at his tender flesh, sucking and pulling, forcing teeth in deeper and deeper. The hot pain of it sent tingling sensations to his groin, and to his horror, he felt himself beginning to get hard.

“Having fun?” Myranda giggled into his right ear. “Such a tease.”

Theon willed himself to go down, to not give these monsters the satisfaction. It was surprisingly easy. After the initial pain, the blood was flowing away from his erection, away from everywhere. He could feel it leaving the core of his body through Damon’s mouth. His head felt heavy and light at the same time, and blackness encroached on his vision. He barely had enough blood left to remain conscious, let alone hard.

Myranda sighed. “Such a disappointment.” Then her teeth were back at his wrist.

Theon squirmed at the dual sensations, but there was no relief. His entire world was encompassed in those two points of pain—three when Alyn bit into his other wrist. It was all throbbing heat, the constant dull ache of teeth against the sharp pangs that came as they sucked, took more away from him, drained him.

He felt his pulse slow, and then even the pain faded away. Everything faded away. The cold of the room, the splinters digging into his skin, the stonework of the ceiling overhead. He was so tired. So tired for being weak. Was that what had kept him alive? Maybe it was time to die, then.

His heart gave one last beat, and then Theon died.


	10. Accepting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger.

He was dead. He knew that. But somehow he could still hear what was going on, though he couldn’t make any sense of it. Screaming, yelling, begging. Those seemed like the sorts of noises he should be making, but he was dead, so it couldn’t be him.

If he concentrated, he could also see some of what was going on. The ceiling was moving overhead. Then he was falling, but not far, and a black shape was moving over him, a bit too dense to be a shadow.

“Please, Sire, you have to save him.”

“You should have taken better care of him.”

“Please. Please don’t let him die.”

Theon knew those voices, but he couldn’t place them. Nor could he make sense of their gibberish. It seemed more trouble than it was worth anyway.

His body was numb, and yet he could still feel the finger probing at his mouth, forcing his lips open. He allowed it only because his body was no longer taking any of his orders at the moment. It seemed his body, at least, knew it was dead, even if his mind had not quite accepted the fact.

The first voice was back. “Open up. That’s good.” Something warm was forced into his open mouth, his head tipped back, a thick liquid poured down his throat. “There you go, there you go. Take it all.” A hard caressing his throat, leading the substance to the right path. Whatever it was, it burned on the way down to his stomach until it stopped coming. The hand was in his hair now, soft and gentle. He could no longer understand what the voice was saying to him.

***

Theon knew he was dead when he woke up, but not due to any delirium. It was very quiet, and it took him several minutes to realize he couldn’t hear his heartbeat or the rushing of blood in his ears. He opened his eyes and sat up.

The world around him had changed. Everything was sharper, more focused. Like he had been in a fog his entire life and was just now coming out of it. He could pick out individual threads on the tapestry on the wall, could smell the lingering scent of the past dozen meals he’d eaten in this room, could hear the noise of a winter cricket scuttling along the floor in search of warmth. The fireplace was unlit, and Theon felt no chill and could see through the darkness.

Slowly, afraid of what he’d find, he brought his hand to his mouth and felt for his teeth. They were sharp enough to prick his finger. A drop of blood welled in the small cut, but nothing more. Theon sat staring at it, waiting for it to bleed more. He was still waiting when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

It was the first time he’d been able to hear Ramsay before he saw him, and Theon was waiting when the door opened.

Ramsay seemed both surprised and pleased to see him sitting up, and he strode in with a self-satisfied smile. “How long have you been awake?”

Theon met his gaze. “A few minutes.”

“You must have many questions.” Ramsay leaned against the farthest bedpost. “Let’s play a game of Good News, Bad News.”

Theon watched guardedly.

“Bad news first. Damon took you away from me. Good news, I killed him.”

The “good news” didn’t come as too much of a relief.

“Bad news. Damon killed you before _I_ could kill him.”

So, that _had_ happened. He’d been dead. Or was he still dead?

“Good news,” Ramsay continued. “We were able to save you. Well, my Sire was.”

Ramsay put one knee on the mattress, using the bedpost to balance himself half-on, half-off the bed.

“Bad news. Now that you’re a Vampyre, you can’t be my blood slave anymore.”

He hoisted himself fully onto the bed and began crawling on hands and knees.

“Good news. Now I can give you the fucking you deserve.”

If his heart could still beat, Theon would have been able to taste it in his throat. He pulled his legs up and pushed himself into the pillows. Any distance, any distance between him and Ramsay.

The latter had a predatory grin and a malicious glint in his cold eyes. He reached out for Theon. “Come here,” he said with a soft purr, fingers wrapping around Theon’s thin upper arms. “That’s a good boy.”

“No,” Theon gasped. “No. No. No.” It fell like a litany from his mouth as he shook his head and kicked out with his feet. Struggling was useless, he knew, but he had to try. He wouldn’t let this happen without a fight.

His feet came into contact with something solid and he lashed out with every ounce of strength he had. A loud “oof” filled his ears, followed by an even louder crash. He stopped shaking his head and stared in a mix of awe and horror at the image of Ramsay crumpled on the floor, broken bits of glass stuck in him and around him.

_Did I do that? Did I just kick Lord Ramsay across the room? Into a window?_

Ramsay stirred with a groan. Of course something like that wouldn’t kill him. He’d be angry.

“You little bitch,” he muttered darkly as he tried to get to his feet. “I’ll fuck you bloody for that.”

An apology welled in Theon’s throat, but he swallowed it. “No.” He bounded to his feet and sprinted to the end of the bed, using both bedposts to steady himself. “You won’t. You won’t touch me ever again.”

Ramsay laughed at this display of defiance. “I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

Theon stood his ground, even as Ramsay began to rise to his feet. With newfound strength, he tore the bedpost apart, snapped it in half as though it were a kindling twig. The canopy came down around him as he leapt off the bed, armed with the makeshift stake.

Ramsay saw what he intended and rushed to meet him. They grappled in the center of the room, heedless of the shattered glass and splintered wood on the floor. Theon was fast, faster than he’d ever been. Stronger than he’d ever been. He dodged Ramsay’s blows and landed one of his own that sent him sprawling once more to the ground.

Ramsay looked up in shock, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “How are you doing that? You’re a fledgling. You can’t possibly be stronger than me.”

Theon wished he had something pithy to say, something to send Ramsay off with. He didn’t have time to think of anything, though, so he simply drove the sharpened, splintery end of the bedpost into Ramsay’s heart. With his new strength, it sank into the Vampyre’s chest with a smooth ease. Ramsay howled in agony that gave him a vicious delight. “Die,” he ordered.

And Ramsay did, his next scream dying on his lips. His eyes rolled up in his head and his body slumped lifelessly on the ground.

Theon stood on wobbly feet as what he had just done sank in.

The wind roared in through the open window, but Theon didn’t feel the cold. He felt nothing but the growing realization that he had killed the heir to Castle Bolton and that the man’s dying scream would likely bring someone to investigate.

Theon fled.

He knew the castle well, using the time he’d spent wandering these halls to quickly find the exit. The front gate was ironically the least guarded, and he forced the doors open by tearing them from their hinges. It was snowing again, and Theon ran into the storm.

He was barefoot and wore only a torn shirt to protect against the elements, but the cold of death outweigh any cold nature could throw at him and he felt nothing. The snowdrifts were a bit more difficult to navigate, as they came up to his waist. It was worse than wading through water, but somehow he managed to make it to the black forest.

Where was he supposed to go? He didn’t even know where he was now. Maybe if he could find those mountains on the horizon again, he’d be able to escape in that direction. He could survive the journey now that he didn’t need to worry about freezing to death. But what about food? Was he doomed to subsist on human blood from now on? Maybe animal blood would do. He could hunt in the woods, and there would probably be bigger game up in the mountains.

He was lost in his thoughts, so he wasn’t sure when the figure appeared in front of him. He only became aware when he felt the cold eyes boring into him. He looked up to see Lord Bolton standing there.

“Don’t run.”

How had he gotten in front of him so quickly?

“You can’t outrun me.” Lord Bolton came forward on surprisingly fast legs, complete with the telltale jerkiness of his movements.

Theon steadied himself for another fight.

“That won’t do,” Lord Bolton said calmly. “You are quite strong to defeat a three-hundred-year-old Vampyre, but I doubt you are strong enough to defeat an eight-hundred-year-old one.”

Theon didn’t relax his stance. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.”

“I killed your heir.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Didn’t we have this discussion before?” Lord Bolton sniffed in what might have been indignation. “If he could be killed by the likes of you, he was not worthy of being my heir.”

“You said you’d let me go,” Theon said. “If I killed him.”

Lord Bolton held his hand out to indicate the vast expanse of wilderness. “You are free to go, of course. But I do have a proposition for you.”

Theon wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. But on the other hand, here was the Head Vampyre of Castle Bolton offering him help. Theon knew precious little about being a Vampyre. “Let me hear it.”

Lord Bolton smiled, and it was the single most chilling thing Theon had ever seen. And he’d seen more than he’d ever wanted to. “I find you a very promising young man. As chance would have it, I am currently on the lookout for just such a promising young man. Castle Bolton will find itself shy a few heirs once the sun rises.” He turned his face towards the east, where the sun would break over the mountains in a few hours.

Theon thought fleetingly about his new form. He could stand out here, right in this place, and wait for the last sunrise he’d ever see. It wouldn’t be a difficult thing at all to let the light take the undead life from this body. Even a coward could do it.

Lord Bolton seemed to know his thoughts. “You _could_ end your existence,” he said levelly. “It was my gift to you, and you may do with it what you will. However, if you choose to…live,” he faltered at the word, “I have a second gift for you. And quite a generous one, I must say.”

“What sort of gift?”

“A name.”

Theon gave him a questioning look.

“How would you like to become Theon Bolton, heir to Castle Bolton?”

Theon felt his undead heart clench. “I can’t. I’m…”

“Baseborn? Yes, and so was Ramsay. So are most of my children, truth be told.”

“I don’t…” Theon hugged himself. “Please. I don’t want to kill anyone.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You may find your reservations have fled you.”

Theon shook his head. “I don’t want…”

Something like a sigh, but infinitely quieter, came from between Lord Bolton’s lips. “You do, of course, realize that our kind can feed on humans without killing them. And if you were to become my heir, and one day succeed my rule over Castle Bolton—become Lord Bolton yourself—you could make it unlawful for a Vampyre to take a human life.” He sounded positively revolted at the idea. “Such things would be left to your discretion, after all.”

Theon stood there, knee-deep in snow, hugging himself as wind whipped through his hair. If he were Lord Bolton, Jeyne would never have been killed. If he were Lord Bolton, none of the human servants would be hurt. And Sansa…the poor girl was still there. She’d need protecting. They’d all need protecting.

He straightened up and looked Lord Bolton in the eye. “I accept your offer, Lord Bolton.”

He didn’t smile this time, much to Theon’s relief. Instead, he gave an acknowledging nod and held out his hand. “You will be a Bolton yourself from this day on,” he said as Theon took the offering. “You may call me Roose. Now, let us go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I just Throose'd. Sorry for no Thramsay ending, but I like to think Roose and Theon went on to have a kinky mentor/apprentice relationship. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone who read or commented. This fic was a bit of an experiment for me, and I'm glad people responded well to it. My next project is going to be even more batshit insane, so if there's something missing from here (like sexytimes, for instance) that you'd definitely like to see in another story, go ahead and let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and criticisms welcome.


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